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Poem	THE SUN he is sunk in the west, All creatures retir?d to rest, While here I sit, all sore beset, With sorrow, grief, and woe: And it’s O, fickle Fortune, O! The prosperous man is asleep, Nor hears how the whirlwinds sweep; But Misery and I must watch The surly tempest blow: And it’s O, fickle Fortune, O! There lies the dear partner of my breast; Her cares for a moment at rest: Must I see thee, my youthful pride, Thus brought so very low! And it’s O, fickle Fortune, O! There lie my sweet babies in her arms; No anxious fear their little hearts alarms; But for their sake my heart does ache, With many a bitter throe: And it’s O, fickle Fortune, O! I once was by Fortune carest: I once could relieve the distrest: Now life’s poor support, hardly earn’d My fate will scarce bestow: And it’s O, fickle Fortune, O! No comfort, no comfort I have! How welcome to me were the grave! But then my wife and children dear— O, wither would they go! And it’s O, fickle Fortune, O! O whither, O whither shall I turn! All friendless, forsaken, forlorn! For, in this world, Rest or Peace I never more shall know! And it’s O, fickle Fortune, O!
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